


A Brief History of Dragons

by eyra



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Allergies, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Castles, Coffee Shops, Cornwall, Folklore, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Legends, M/M, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Modern Era, Mythology References, Panic Attacks, Romance, Sick Remus Lupin, Slash, Social Anxiety, Writer Remus Lupin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:48:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24114526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyra/pseuds/eyra
Summary: It's lovely up here; all meadows dotted with wildflowers, wind-beaten tracks criss-crossing this way and that through the fields, weaving inland to the pinewoods. The sun's hot on his back as he passes ramshackle stone walls, long since crumbled to piles of ancient rubble and scree, and then the path winds downwards, still following the line of the coast until Sirius finds himself outside an old white cottage, tucked away behind the hill with a rose garden that faces out to the sea.Sirius moves to Cornwall for the summer and meets a rude, beautiful boy who is writing a book that may or may not be about dragons.
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 194
Kudos: 780





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to do something involving Arthurian myth for a while, and a reclusive Remus wearing old knitted jumpers in a misty seaside town wouldn't leave me alone either, so I wrote this. I've slightly fallen in love with this little world, and I really hope you like it too!

"Sirius," says James, somewhere from under the counter. "Can you take a pot of Earl Grey out to Aberforth?"

It's a typically slow day at the café. Grey and misty outside - like every day has been since the pair of them arrived two weeks ago - and the usual faces showing up at the front door and taking their usual seats and ordering their usual cups of tea. There was a morning last week when Minerva McGonagall came in a whole forty-five minutes later than usual for her daily poached egg, which turned out to be a result of one of her cats bringing a dead robin into her kitchen and refusing to relinquish the body, and that's about as exciting as things get in the sleepy coastal town. It's exactly the summer Sirius needs.

It had been Fleamont's idea, for the boys to come down to Padstow after graduation and work in the café for a few months. James, used to working down here for the occasional weekend and holiday since he was a boy, had a place secured at Imperial for his Masters starting in October, and Sirius suspects Fleamont mostly wanted to keep his son out of trouble for one last summer before admitting defeat and sending him on his way. Sirius's invite had been markedly more gentle; a soft place to land after the last few months of court hearings and supervised visits and ugly, tearful phone calls with Regulus. The disinheritance hadn't been a surprise, exactly, but Sirius knows the fact that he graduated at all in June was nothing short of a bloody miracle, and he'll be eternally grateful to the Potters for bringing him down here and setting him up in Euphemia's restaurant for the season to get away from it all. It's a tiny thing; a little hole in the wall, nestled snugly in a row of thirteenth-century cottages, now shops selling trinkets made of seashells and bakeries that smell of cinnamon and honey when Sirius walks by on his way to work. Your first wedding anniversary is supposed to be paper, Sirius thinks, but they broke the mould when they made Fleamont and instead of a card or an origami rose, he'd given Effie the restaurant she'd told him she dreamt about as a girl; tucked away down a winding cobbled street, with its blown-glass windows and uneven wooden floorboards that swell and creak when it rains. 

The Potters' sprawling old farmhouse up on the hill has rooms enough for plenty, and Sirius had so loved coming here during their summers at school; a bright and happy reprieve from the stifling, oppressive gloom of home. He'd be quite content to stay in Padstow beyond the end of the season, he thinks, but he's also keenly aware that this time was intended to be spent working out precisely what he's supposed to be doing and how he's going to make himself useful when he goes back up to London with James in the autumn. His own Masters application had got lost somewhere between the emancipation and James catching Sirius wildly trying to take out a payday loan to cover the rest of his fees for the year - something James had put an immediate stop to, with Fleamont's help - and now he isn't sure the idea of another twelve months of lecture theatres and seminars is really what he's looking for. He's just not sure about any of it anymore.

He brews Aberforth's pot of Earl Grey, then sets to wiping off the crockery on the draining board with a checkered tea towel. There's something impossibly peaceful about the café on a rainy morning. It's like their own little hideaway; a cosy spot where nobody would ever bother them beyond the usual faces turning up at the usual times to order their usual cups of tea.

And then the door opens, and an entirely new face walks in.

"Who's that?" Sirius mumbles when James resurfaces from under the counter, dripping tap finally tinkered with to his satisfaction. He watches as the stranger heads over to a table near the window which, he now realises, he's never seen occupied before, and pulls off his raincoat to hang up on the pegs next to the heaving bookcase. He's tall - around Sirius's height, he thinks - and yet somehow seems to take up almost no space at all; like he could disappear into the mist outside with his pale skin and light, fluffy hair and his baggy grey jumper that's fraying at the cuffs, and you'd never know. He folds himself into a chair at the rickety table and begins pulling out piles of books and papers from his beaten-up leather satchel. It's curiously difficult for Sirius to look away.

"Oh, that's just Remus," says James quietly, following Sirius's eyeline. "He must've been away. He's usually in here every morning - or at least he was when I was down at Easter."

"Who is he, though?" Sirius asks, still watching the boy as he takes out a pencil and begins scribbling away, hunched over a notebook.

James shrugs. "He's just Remus. He was in the year above me at St Eval's before we moved up to London," he says, wiping his hands off on a rag and draping it rakishly over one shoulder. "He's a bit odd. But he's mostly harmless, I think."

"Odd like how?"

"Go ask him what he wants," James mutters, and it looks like he's trying to bite back a smile. "You'll see."

Sirius narrows his eyes at him, but the boy in the window is sort of strangely calling out to him, somehow, and he finds himself grabbing his pad and wandering over to the table without ever really deciding to do it. Some sort of magnetism, almost; a curiosity pulling at something inside him, steering him on. It's interesting.

"Morning," he smiles when he reaches Remus. "What can I get for you?"

Remus looks up, and _Christ_ , he's pretty. In that sort of misty, nebulous way; he's all pale green eyes and freckles and plush, chapped lips, skin so pale it's almost translucent. Other-worldly, Sirius's brain offers sappily, and he mentally rolls his eyes at himself.

"Where's James?" Remus says flatly, and Sirius frowns.

"Erm," he hedges, glancing over his shoulder to where James is stacking mugs behind the counter and forcibly not looking at the pair of them. "He's... there."

"James knows what I want."

Sirius blinks down at the boy in front of him. How bizarrely rude. He's not even looking at Sirius anymore - he's gone back to his notebook and is scribbling away as if Sirius isn't standing there like a complete lemon with his pad and a bemused look on his face.

"Alright..." he says quietly, backing away from the table as one might from a wild animal. He's not really paying attention to where he's going, and he stumbles on Pomona's handbag on his way back to the counter and almost trips and Remus remains entirely oblivious to the whole thing. It's maddening.

"You set me up there," he hisses at James when he reaches the back of the shop, and James grins at him.

"He's odd, isn't he?"

"Well," Sirius huffs, looking back out at Remus and shrugging. "Yeah. Yeah, he's odd."

"He'll have a pot of Yorkshire Tea, decaf," says James, reaching up to grab a clean teapot from above the coffee machine. "Milk and sugar. Two slices of brown toast, butter and honey on the side. Use one of those little individual pots of honey from the basket; don't just give him it from the big jar, he'll send it back. And a bowl of porridge, but do that first and let it sit whilst you brew the tea, otherwise he'll say it's too hot and he won't eat it."

Sirius blinks at him.

"You're joking."

"I'm really not," grins James, ushering Sirius towards the door behind the bar. "And he'll want two knives for the toast; one for the butter, another one for the honey."

"Jesus Christ," Sirius mutters. 

“Good luck!” says James, and Sirius throws him a withering glare before disappearing off into the kitchen.

"Toast," he declares ten minutes later, setting the plate down on Remus's table in the scant space between his books and his papers. "Butter and honey - _two_ knives," he emphasises, "and there's your porridge, and your tea." He unloads the tray and then holds it against himself as he smiles down at Remus, and finds that he's - bafflingly - waiting for some sort of approval from the boy. As if this was some kind of test. He's not entirely sure why he's so eager to make sure he's passed.

"Thanks," Remus mutters, not even looking up, and Sirius has half a mind to clip him round the back of the head with his tray. _So_ bloody rude.

"What're you working on?" he says instead, peering at Remus's papers and ignoring the frown of annoyance that pinches the other boy's forehead. He's such a puzzle, and Sirius thinks he might be quite a fun diversion for the slow, otherwise uneventful morning stretching out in front of him. Besides, the books do look quite interesting - all battered, old volumes, some without titles, canvas-bound in greens and browns with crinkled pages and broken spines. There's a map peeking out from under the plate of toast with strange markings on it that Sirius doesn't recognise; some ancient language, like runes or spells.

 _Oh god,_ Sirius thinks, scanning the rest of the papers. _Please don't be a Lord of the Rings thing._

"My book," murmurs Remus, flicking through one of the tomes in search of something.

"Uh huh," Sirius hums. "What's your book about?"

"Lots of things."

Sirius sighs when nothing further follows, and traipses back over to the bar, defeated. 

"You two getting on?" says James from where he's poring over an order sheet for bags of coffee beans. He sounds faintly amused.

"He says he's writing a book."

James nods, chewing absently on the end of his pencil. "Yeah," he murmurs, frowning as he crosses something out. "I think he writes books about dragons, or something."

"Dragons?"

"Yeah. Or like... fairies, or something. I dunno."

Sirius looks back out at Remus, watching as he takes a tentative spoonful of the porridge. He doesn't spit it back out, so Sirius guesses he got the temperature right and feels curiously proud of himself for passing the test. How fantastically frustrating this boy is; fascinating and strange and so deliciously, objectively rude. What a wonderful challenge he may turn out to be.

***

There's a sausage casserole bubbling away when James and Sirius get back to the farmhouse after they've locked up, and they slip inside quietly so as not to wake Fleamont and Effie. James gets them both a plate, and they wolf down the stew with mountains of mashed potato and cans of Diet Coke that Sirius grabs from the fridge in the utility.

"Quite fit, that Remus," says Sirius quietly, chewing on a bit of onion. 

"Is he?"

Sirius nods. There's something lovely about being able to do this, now; to talk freely about what boys he might quite fancy. It's not that he's ever hidden it from James, per se - he'd been the first person Sirius had talked to, in fact, when he'd got things sorted in his head in Sixth Form and worked out that girls weren't for him, and never would be. James had given him a hug and pressed a firm kiss to the side of his head, and told him he bloody loved him, and at some point along the way Fleamont and Effie must've figured it out too because a year later, in their summer before uni, Fleamont had had too many glasses of Malbec and asked Sirius across the dinner table if he'd met any nice chaps recently. Sirius's face had burnt scarlet, and Effie had whacked her husband round the back of the head with a cloth napkin and scolded him for being so bloody nosy, but then they were all laughing and Sirius was shaking his head and telling Fleamont that the boys at Cambridge simply weren't up to par, and that was that.

So it's not that it's ever been a secret, as such, and it's not that he hadn't lived it through his undergrad with the odd boy from the rowing team and, one time, a tutor from the Law department. It's more that Sirius has had to fight tooth and nail with his own conscience to reach this point where he feels comfortable talking about this part of himself he'd been so convinced was defective. And he has, without question, his own parents to thank for that; an austere, conservative upbringing will do that to a man, James had said grimly, and it's only within the past few months that Sirius has felt truly able to say any of this out loud. It's impossibly freeing.

"Yeah," he says, taking a swig of his drink. "He's pretty."

James grins across at him.

"Pretty odd."

"Well, yes," laughs Sirius, and he doesn't mean to be cruel. He's still entirely fascinated by the boy. But he can't deny that he is, objectively, a little strange. "A bit."

"You should ask him to show you his dragon," suggests James with feigned innocence, standing to clear their plates away into the dishwasher.

Sirius tuts. "Don't be gross," he says, rolling his eyes. "What makes you think he's writing about dragons, anyway?"

"I dunno," James shrugs, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back against the counter across from Sirius. He yawns. "At school he was always off in the library reading about weird stuff like that. He didn't really have any friends. He just... yeah, spent all his time in the library."

"That's sort of sad," Sirius murmurs quietly. He thinks he knows what Remus might've felt like; his own coping mechanism might’ve been more bunking off lessons and smoking behind the swimming pool rather than ever visiting the library, but he’d been tragically short on friends too, before James had transferred up in their third year, and the thought of James never coming, and having to see out the rest of his schooling by himself, makes Sirius feel impossibly lonely.

"Yeah, 'spose so," agrees James. "I probably should've been nicer to him, in hindsight."

"You were thirteen when you left, James," Sirius says, stretching his arms over his head and rolling his shoulders, stiff from a day carrying trays of heavy crockery. "I don't think you need to beat yourself up about it."

They head up to bed soon after, James tiredly waving Sirius off at the top of the stairs and both traipsing down to their respective rooms in the dim light of the hallway. Sirius grabs a quick shower before pulling his pyjamas on, the hot water a tonic on his aching back, and then slips between the cool sheets and flicks off his lamp.

He dreams of dragons and mist and wild, willow-green eyes, and a knitted jumper the colour of honeyed porridge.

***

Remus is there again, the next morning, when Sirius gets back from the butchers with the parcel of bacon rashers James had sent him out to get. They had an early run of tourists ordering tables of cooked breakfasts and the unexpected custom had done them out of provisions before nine o'clock; tucked away as they are down their little side street, they rely almost entirely on the locals and aren't used to visitors ever finding them. It's quite annoying when they do.

"So he's always lived here?" asks Sirius, folding his arms as he leans forward on the counter and gazes out at Remus sitting at his table in the window. "How come I've never met him?"

It may be his first summer working at the restaurant, but he's spent countless weeks down here with James through school and university and not once has he seen Remus before. He's sure he'd remember him; it's been less than a day since they first spoke and the other boy's scowling face has already taken up permanent residence in a prominent spot in Sirius's mind. His just isn't a face Sirius is likely to forget.

"He just keeps himself to himself," James says, waving his hand dismissively as he fiddles with the spout of the coffee machine that he insists was making a funny noise earlier. "And he doesn't live in town; he lives out along the coast somewhere. He just comes in for his breakfast and to go to the library, I think."

"That's nice," sighs Sirius, and James tuts exasperatedly and chucks a tea towel at Sirius's head.

"Why don't you go over instead of just standing there making doe-eyes at him? Go on," he snaps, bodily moving Sirius away from where he's standing at the bar and waving him off impatiently. "Go. You're in my way."

Sirius wanders over to Remus's table. It's only him and Minerva in this morning; Pomona tends not to come in on Tuesdays, he's learnt, and Aberforth will be out on his boat since the weather's a shade brighter than it was yesterday. He smiles when he reaches him, and feels equal parts delighted and raging when Remus, as expected, doesn't look up.

"How's the book coming along?" he says, sinking into a chair at the table next to Remus's. He still doesn't look at him.

"Fine," mutters Remus, grabbing a battered old tome from next to his pot of tea and leafing through it searchingly. Sirius can count his freckles from where he's sitting; there are so many of them.

"Can I read it when it's finished?"

Remus frowns over his paper, scribbling something in the margin of his notebook. "Why would you want to read it?"

"Because I'm interested in," Sirius pauses, reaching over to grab a book at random from Remus's pile and scanning the title. "Arthurian Literature and Legend. Wait, that is actually quite interesting." He spins the pile of books towards him so he can read the spines: _Historia Regum Britanniae. Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. The Road to Camelot._

"I'm glad you think so," drawls Remus, and Sirius blinks at him in surprise, delighted to learn that Remus apparently does irony.

"So you're writing about King Arthur?" he asks curiously, shuffling his chair a little closer and propping his elbows on Remus's table to gaze across at him in anticipation. God, he hopes James isn't watching.

"Amongst other things, yes."

"Tell me about him."

Remus sighs then, and, to Sirius's utter joy, finally puts down his pencil and looks at him.

"Why? There's a library two minutes from here; why don't you just go there and read about him?"

"Because I'd rather hear it from you," grins Sirius. Remus is scowling at him, and picking absently at a thread on the frayed cuff of his jumper.

"Aren't you supposed to be working?" Remus says flatly, which only makes Sirius smile more.

"Tell me one thing about King Arthur, and then I'll go do some work."

"He wasn't a king."

Sirius frowns. "What?"

"He wasn't a king," Remus repeats, picking up his pencil again and going back to his notebook. "He was a warrior; probably a general, if he existed at all."

"So why do we call him King Arthur?"

"Because that's how myths work, Sirius," murmurs Remus. "Things get changed. Embellished. Different versions of the same story."

"Huh."

Sirius watches Remus for a moment longer, following the way the pale fingers of his left hand grip the pencil, the way it darts frantically across the page, Remus's scrawl barely legible as he notes down words and symbols around what looks like a tiny ink drawing of a tree. At length, he stands, and he's halfway across the café before he freezes and turns back to the table.

"How do you know my name?" he says dumbly, something electric tingling in the tips of his fingers.

Remus doesn't look up.

"I asked James."

***

"He's honestly dreamy," moans Sirius over his pint, sighing as he gazes unseeingly past James into the throng of people in the tiny pub. He'd been doing James's head in all week, apparently, and today had driven him to drink by the time they closed up early for the night. Nine o'clock finds them tucked away at a little table in the corner of the Hog's Head, and James has his head in his hands as Sirius smiles wistfully at him. "He's just lovely, James."

"Wonderful," James grumbles, his voice muffled. "That's great, Sirius."

"Look, I had to listen to you moon over Lily for a whole year," says Sirius reasonably, taking a sip of his beer. "And you didn't even talk to her until halfway through Sixth Form. So you owe me this."

"Yes, the difference is, Sirius," James sighs, scrubbing his hands through his hair, "Lily is perfect and wonderful and a joy to hear about, and Remus Lupin is weird and creepy and won't eat his porridge if he thinks someone's looked at it the wrong way."

"I thought you said you regretted not being nicer to him at school?" says Sirius, raising an eyebrow at James in reprimand. "Maybe start now?"

"You agreed that he's odd!" splutters James in protest.

"He is odd. But I like him."

James grumbles something intelligible.

"No one's saying you have to be his best mate, James," reasons Sirius sagely, sipping his pint. "You just have to put up with listening to me singing his virtues for the rest of the summer."

"God help me."

Sirius subjects him to precisely thirty more minutes of Remus-talk; how his hair is always dusted with mist when he comes into the café from the rain, and how his legs just go on for days when he stretches them out under his table. How he's spoken for Sirius for six mornings in a row now, and looked at him twice, and how Remus forgot one of his books on the window seat on Friday and how Sirius maybe took it and kept it and is sleeping with it next to his pillow and how he's working up the nerve to take it back to him one afternoon, if only he could find out where Remus lives.

"You're a bloody stalker," groans James, nodding gratefully at the barman when he asks them if they want another round. "Just leave it out for him at the café. You can't just turn up at the man's house uninvited."

"I'd be helping him," Sirius protests. "It looks like an important book."

"An important book about sodding dragons."

"It's not about dragons," says Sirius slowly, speaking to James as if he's an idiot. Which he is. "It's about Avalon."

"Ava-who?"

"Avalon, you pleb. It's where King Arthur went to die. And actually, did you know, a lot of historians think that if King Arthur existed then he probably wasn't a king at all. He was probably a-"

"Sirius," James cuts him off, holding up a hand to stop him. "I love you to bits. And I want you to live your best, gay life and I promise I want to hear all about it. All the gory details.” Sirius pulls a face at that. "But please don't make me listen to any more of this tripe."

"You're the one who told me to go talk to him," says Sirius innocently. "You started this."

"I know," James mutters glumly into his pint. "I really hate myself for that."

***

It's been a whole week since he took the book; a glorious week of sitting across from Remus as he picks at his porridge and toast and patently ignores Sirius making eyes at him. He doesn't come in on Thursday, which Sirius tries not to worry about and has James shaking his head in despair when he catches Sirius casually asking Pomona if she's seen him around that morning, but then he's back on Friday, and Sirius has his pot of tea to him before he's even finished taking his coat off.

"You didn't come in yesterday," he says lightly, setting a cup and saucer down for Remus next to his two knives, ready for his toast.

"I was poorly," murmurs Remus, and Sirius stops short.

"Oh. Are you alright now?"

Remus blinks at him, frowning slightly. "I'm fine," he says, and takes a seat, pulling his usual stack of papers from his satchel. 

Sirius hovers at the other side of the table, and he's really not sure why he feels such a need to make doubly certain that Remus is definitely okay. He doesn't look ill; he's always pale as milk, so no difference there, and he does look a little tired, but other than that he's his usual lovely, grouchy self.

"What was wrong with you?" he asks bluntly, then winces, but Remus mercifully doesn't seem offended. Which makes sense, given his own complete lack of tact, always; it's clearly a language he understands.

"I'm allergic to a lot of things," Remus says plainly, pouring himself out a cup of tea. "I tried something new for tea on Tuesday and I shouldn't have."

Oh. 

_Why,_ Sirius thinks, as he watches Remus stir milk into his tea, _is that so achingly, impossibly sad?_ He thinks of the porridge, and the two knives for the toast, and the way Remus has the same thing at the same time cooked in the same way every morning, and wonders if that has less to do with Remus being odd or creepy or whatever else he's been laughing with James about, and more to do with him being afraid of what might happen if something else is in his honey or if he has his porridge a different way than what he's used to. Sirius wants to hug him.

"I'll get you your breakfast," he says softly instead, and feels something pull inside his chest when Remus nods wordlessly and goes back to poring over his books.

He does find out where he lives, eventually. He's in the bakery one Sunday, picking up a couple of muffins for him and James, and he sees Remus wander past out on the narrow street, hood up against the late morning mist as he heads in the direction of the library.

"He's a good lad," says Poppy from behind the counter when she catches Sirius staring. "You'll have him in the café every morning, I imagine?"

Sirius turns back to her. "Yeah," he nods, handing over a note for the sweets. "He comes in every day."

"We worried about him, you know, after everything with his parents."

Something cold runs along the back of Sirius's neck. "His parents?" he asks lightly, tucking his change back into his pocket.

"Yes, it all came out a few years ago," Poppy says, an unmistakable note of sadness in her soft voice. "They separated, by all accounts, and then they left quite suddenly. And the lad stayed."

Sirius tries to do the maths in his head. James had said Remus was a year above them at school, which puts him at twenty-two, maybe twenty-three now. If his parents moved away a few years ago, Remus must've still been a teenager, and the thought of him suddenly being left all alone, rattling round an empty house out on the coast by himself, makes Sirius ache for him.

"In the family home?" he asks innocently, as if Remus's book isn't burning a hole in his backpack right now. 

"That's right. Up past the cemetery, behind the church. Lovely little cottage."

Sirius thanks her for the cakes, leaving her to her radio programme and heading back along the cobbles to the café where James is cooking up a batch of tomato soup for the lunchtime regulars. It's a slow afternoon, from then; the odd local popping their head in for a pot of tea, and a family from Lancashire who have a dachshund and a three-year-old who throws a fork at Sirius when he brings them their sandwiches. The bell over the door rings just before dinnertime, and Sirius looks up to see a short, portly boy around his age, all ruddy cheeks and flat, rain-dampened hair as he blinks around the small restaurant.

"Pete!" James calls in greeting, emerging from the kitchen behind Sirius. "It's been ages!"

 _Oh, right,_ thinks Sirius. _Pete_. 

James had mentioned last weekend that his old mate from primary school was coming down for the summer to stay with a grandma or something, and how James had offered him a few shifts at the café to help out during busier times. Not that they really have busy times, Sirius had reminded him, and tried to keep the slight note of bitterness out of his voice at the thought of an outsider intruding on their lovely summer together. He really had wanted it to be just the two of them; one last hurrah before James went back to school and Sirius... did whatever Sirius was going to do, and the thought of it being invaded by a Pete is something of an annoyance, churlish as Sirius knows he's being.

"Come in, come in," says James, ushering Pete into the restaurant and taking his coat from him. "Pete, Sirius. Sirius, Pete."

The shorter man grins as he sticks a chubby hand out.

"I've heard so much about you, Sirius," he says cheerily. "It's nice to finally meet you."

"You too," Sirius murmurs vaguely, and maybe he doesn't hate Pete so much after all; it's comforting, to hear that James talks about him to other people - even people Sirius barely knew existed, because James has probably mentioned Pete all of twice in the whole time he's known him. He feels a sudden rush of fondness towards his idiot best friend then, and it brings a smile to his lips. "Good to have you here."

They actually work well together; Pete's pleasant enough, as it turns out, and it is a help to have an extra pair of hands when a rowdy group of tourists come in without a booking mid-evening and order three courses apiece and bottle after bottle of red wine. Closing down the restaurant at the end of the night takes hardly any time at all, and Sirius chuckles as Peter throws them a cheery wave and a _"Goodnight!"_ before wandering off in the direction of his grandma's house.

"He's nice," Sirius says lightly, zipping his coat up against the cool night air.

"Yeah, he's alright," laughs James. "I've barely seen him since primary school; bit of a shame, really."

They cross the road together and start making their way up the hill towards the farm. It's still so unseasonably cold, and Sirius shivers against the breeze on the back of his neck.

"He didn't go to St. Eval's?" he asks, pushing his hands into his pockets.

"Nah, they moved away when we were kids."

"Seems like everyone ends up leaving here."

James quirks an eyebrow at him. "How do you mean?"

"Poppy said something," Sirius murmurs, falling behind James as they pass through a narrow shortcut in the row of cottages halfway up the road. "About Remus's parents. Like, that they just left when Remus was younger."

"Oh, yeah," says James from up ahead. "I think I knew that. Like they both just moved away, and he wanted to stay, or something? I remember my dad saying something about it."

"That's sad," Sirius says quietly.

James waits for Sirius at the end of the alley, stifling a yawn. "Yeah, it is a bit."

Sirius doesn't sleep well that night. He's kept up with thoughts of Remus, and of empty homes and parents fighting and then he's wondering vaguely what Regulus is doing, and if he ever did get that place at the Conservatory in Milan. He will have done, he thinks; he's so wonderful with his violin, and Sirius suspects - or hopes - that despite his protestations he too was more than ready to get out of that cursed house. He dreams about him when he does eventually slip under, and Remus is there too, the three of them standing in opposite corners of a dark hall as a cold wind breaks through an open window and he wakes, panting, gripping the old green book from beside his pillow.

He stays in bed later than usual the next morning. James is showing Pete how to open up the café for the day, and Fleamont and Effie are out on a walk somewhere, so Sirius takes the opportunity to have a leisurely breakfast at the farm, enjoying the peace and quiet. It's still early enough when he sets off to town, and he bumps into James heading into the butchers because they've run out of bacon, again, and braces himself for a tourist-heavy start to the day as he pushes the café door open and steps inside to find a frazzled Pete ferrying plates of sausages to a table of pensioners.

" _Help_ ," he mouths urgently at Sirius from across the floor, and Sirius rushes to toss his stuff behind the counter before pulling on his apron. And it's only then that he looks up, and sees Remus's usual table is occupied. Two middle-aged women, chatting over cappuccinos, oblivious to the fact that that table isn't for them and that Remus will be here any minute and they'll have to move.

"Sirius," calls James as he shoulders the door open, arms laden with bags. "Take these. Two bacon sandwiches, table three."

Sirius grabs the bags from him and disappears into the kitchen, and when the bell over the door next rings Sirius looks out across the restaurant to see Remus standing in the threshold, staring at his usual table in shock. To be fair, Sirius has literally never seen anyone else sitting there first thing in the morning; it's as if the locals know that it's Remus's table, and leave it vacant out of respect until he appears. But the two women remain oblivious, and Sirius watches with both hands full of plates of eggs as Remus looks from his table to the two empty tables next to it and at the back of the café respectively. He hesitates, pulling roughly on the frayed cuff of his jumper where it peeks out from under his jacket, and then he's biting down on his lip and turning to leave.

"Bugger," Sirius says softly as he watches him go.

It's all frying pans and order pads and crying babies from then on out, the next hour passing in a haze and it's not until ten that they find out that one of the tour buses dropped its group at the wrong car park which is how they all ended up here rather than at the usual tourist spots on the waterfront. Any other establishment would revel in the business, Sirius thinks, but for them all it does it make them hot and stressed and out of bacon, again, and by the time the breakfast crowd finally leaves, Pete is a ruined man slumped over the counter at the back of the café, mumbling something about orange juice to himself.

"Am I alright to nip out?" Sirius asks James, tugging his apron off. "I won't be long."

James shrugs, wiping his brow on a paper towel from next to the sink. "Sure. They're all fed and watered now, aren't they? I'll turn the buggers away if they try to come back."

Sirius grins. He slips back into the kitchen, and grabs a flask from a shelf near the range. Toast won't travel well, and he imagines Remus has plenty of tea at home, but he makes up a pot anyway and pours it into the Thermos with a little milk and sugar, and then ladles a good helping of porridge into a Tupperware container. He grabs a new jar of honey from the store cupboard as an afterthought, and tucks it all carefully into his backpack beside the old green book.

"Where are you off to?" James says knowingly when he comes back out into the café.

"Shut up," murmurs Sirius with a smile, and then he's slipping through the door onto the sunny street outside.

It's a long walk out to the cemetery at the edge of town. He pads along the cobbles, weaving through the occasional group of sightseers and cursing every last one of them for taking Remus's table in the window. There's a busload of them disembarking in a car park halfway up the hill, and he throws them all a withering glare as he hoists his backpack carefully up on his shoulders. At least it's not raining, for once; the unseasonably wet summer seems to have given up for the day and allowed them a rare few hours of sunshine, and Sirius lets the light warm him as he trudges up the grassy path towards the church out on the cliffside. He's never been up here before; all those summers down here with the Potters, days spent in the water and careening around the labyrinth of narrow streets and not once has he ever been this far north along the coast. It's lovely; all meadows dotted with wildflowers, wind-beaten tracks criss-crossing this way and that through the fields, weaving inland to the pinewoods. The sun's hot on his back as he passes ramshackle old stone walls, long since crumbled to piles of rubble and scree, ancient markers along the cliff edge, and then the path winds downwards, still following the line of the coast until Sirius finds himself outside an old white cottage, tucked away behind the hill with a rose garden that faces out to the sea. The slates on the roof are green with moss, and there's a wisp of smoke curling out of the chimney stacks.

Sirius grins at the butterflies in his stomach as he knocks on the red front door. It looks freshly painted, he notices, and it swings open a few moments later to reveal a harried-looking Remus with a worried expression and a smear of ink across his left cheek.

"Hi, Remus," Sirius says brightly, and Remus seems to deflate a little. Sirius isn't sure how to read that.

"Oh," he mutters, letting out a breath. "It's you."

"It's me," Sirius nods, undeterred. "I brought you your breakfast."

"Why?"

"Because you didn't get to have it at the café."

Remus blinks at him across the threshold. He does, perhaps, look a little paler than usual; Sirius isn't sure if it's the shadow cast by the apple tree next to the path, or if perhaps Remus hasn't eaten anything at all today, and the thought makes him ache inside.

"And," he goes on, coming back to himself, "I brought your book."

"My book?" Remus says flatly.

"Yeah, you left a book at the café. So I brought that for you."

"Oh."

They stand there in silence for a long moment, Remus still hovering in the doorway, Sirius still waiting on the step outside, and then Sirius gathers himself and ploughs on determinedly.

"Can I come in?" he asks, grinning, and Remus frowns.

"I suppose so," comes his vague reply, and then he's stepping aside and letting Sirius into the house.

It's charming, Sirius thinks. Utterly charming. The cottage stretches back away from the sea, all low ceilings and exposed, wooden beams, mismatched rugs covering the dark oak floors and every surface piled high with books and papers and notes. It's all so... _Remus_. All a little out of place; a threadbare yellow armchair by a window that doesn't really fit the room, yet looks entirely at home. A fern that spills lazily out over a mantelpiece, outgrowing its cracked plant pot that's painted in reds and golds and ochres. There's a coffee table against a sky-blue wall, and through the layers of books Sirius can see it's inlaid with ornate emerald tiles, ivy and vines etched into the ceramic, and on top of a stack of notebooks, a shiny green plate that's decorated like cabbage leaves.

"It'll be cold," says Remus from somewhere behind Sirius in the hall, and he turns to face him.

"What will?"

"The porridge."

"Oh," Sirius blinks at him. "Well, yes. Probably. But we can heat it up a bit."

He smiles, and a few minutes later finds himself poring over a heavy iron saucepan on an Aga in a small kitchen, Remus sitting quietly at the table and watching him with something like bemusement on his face.

"You didn't have to bring me breakfast," he murmurs, as Sirius ladles the warmed porridge out into a bowl and sets it on the table across from him, digging out the flask of tea to go with it.

"I know," Sirius says, clambering onto the bench across from Remus. "I just wanted to see you, I suppose."

"Why?"

Sirius grins at him, and shakes his head.

"I don't know," he shrugs happily, leafing slowly through a book about stone circles as Remus cautiously tucks into his oats. He disappears off into another room when he's finished, and Sirius tuts at the empty bowl that he's left abandoned on the table.

"I'll wash that up, shall I?" he says lightly to himself, and a moment later he's drying his hands and wandering off through the rabbit warren of the cottage, following the sound of Remus's pen scratching on paper. He comes out in a brightly-lit study, the sun streaming through the low windows from out over the sea, painting everything in gold. There's a huge walnut desk across from the doorway, positively groaning with the weight of the papers and books stacked atop it, and Sirius pads over to where Remus is poring over a page to pick up a volume from the pile.

"' _Arthur: The Dragon King',_ " he reads, scanning the spine. "So you do write about dragons?"

"I write about Arthurian legend," Remus says without looking up, and Sirius fancies that the usual edge of annoyance he has when speaking to Sirius is softened, somehow. Maybe even missing altogether. "The dragons are mostly symbolic.”

“Symbolic of what?

“Lots of things,” he mutters. “No two versions of the story are the same, but it's generally accepted that the red dragon heralds the coming of Arthur."

"Huh," muses Sirius, flicking the book open and sinking into a low armchair next to the desk. "And what about this white dragon? Who's he?"

"Well in this analogy, the Saxons, probably." Remus pushes his own book aside, rummaging through the notes in front of him to pull out what looks like an old map of Cornwall. "But like I said," he murmurs, examining the paper, "No two versions are the same."

Sirius hums in understanding, nestling back in the chair as he thumbs to the next page and carries on reading. They slip into an entirely comfortable silence, the only sounds the scribbling of Remus's pen, the occasional gull outside on the cliff, and the steady, soothing ticking of the old grandfather clock out in the hall. Sirius is lost in a drawing of a castle somewhere up the coast when he feels his phone buzz in his back pocket, and he tuts at the interruption.

"Oh, pants," he mutters, seeing the text from James enquiring as to his whereabouts. The tourists did come back, as it turns out, and James and Pete are drowning in afternoon tea orders. "I have to go."

"Alright," says Remus quietly from the desk, not looking up.

"See you tomorrow?" Sirius asks hopefully, standing and putting the book carefully back on the pile. He watches the way the sunlight catches on the tiny golden hairs on the back of Remus's neck; it's impossibly pretty.

Remus hums something that might be agreement, and then Sirius is hoisting his backpack onto his shoulders and heading towards the hall.

"Thank you for breakfast," he hears softly from behind him, and he can't stop the grin that spreads across his face as he steps out into the sun.

***

"Remus okay?" James mutters later when they're standing side by side behind the counter, polishing cutlery. Pete left a few minutes ago, mercifully flipping the sign on the door to _Closed_ , and Sirius can practically smell the pot of Effie's cooking he knows will be waiting for them on the stove when they get back to the farm.

"Yeah, he's fine."

He didn't tell James much when he got back; just that he'd taken the breakfast to Remus, and that the walk was longer than he thought it would be. He doesn't tell him about the dragons, or the rose garden, or the plate shaped like cabbage leaves. It feels like something separate, through a veil, for Remus and for him, and he just doesn't really want to share it with anyone right now. Not even James.

"You really do like him, don't you?" James says softly, and Sirius nods.

"Yeah," he murmurs, concentrating on the silverware in his hands. "I think I do."

He catches James smiling out of the corner of his eye, and can't help but smile back.

He visits Remus again, a few days later. He's been in for his breakfast every day, so there's no excuse, really, but Wednesday afternoon finds Sirius trudging back through town and up towards the cliff top again, another jar of honey in his backpack. The sun has decided the town has had its fill for now, and it's another grey, misty day that leaves crystal droplets in the loose strands of hair that hang around Sirius's face as he follows the path through the wildflower meadow to the red front door on the other side of the hill. Remus still hesitates for a moment on the threshold, frowning at him in confusion, but then he's stepping aside and letting Sirius through and they share a pot of tea in the kitchen, near a window that faces east. 

The weeks go on much like that. Breakfast, Remus, a walk up the cliff, more Remus. More afternoons spent hidden away in the comfortable chair next to Remus's desk, reading about kings and castles and old, forgotten rituals, feeling the sunlight stream through the window behind him on the brighter days and warming the back of his neck. It becomes a daily thing, at some point, and Pete is glad of the extra shifts at the café when Sirius asks him to cover even if it is just the early afternoon slump and all there is to do is wash plates, but Sirius makes sure to buy him a few pints every Friday evening to say thank you anyway.

"So it's Lupin you're seeing, is it?" Pete asks one such night, gratefully taking a glass from Sirius as they crowd round their usual table by the bar in the Hog's Head.

"Well, sort of,” says Sirius quietly, and he thinks he might be blushing. "I'm seeing him," he goes on, distracting himself by trying to balance a beer mat on its edge. "But I'm not... _seeing_ him."

"Ah, you'd like to though," grins James, who's already on his third pint. "You'd like to see _all_ of him."

Sirius rolls his eyes.

"I do vaguely remember him from primary school," nods Pete, taking a sip of his beer. "Odd fellow."

"He's not odd," Sirius says, with more bite than he intends, but if Pete's offended he doesn't show it.

"No, he was a bit weird," Pete goes on, oblivious to the daggers Sirius is throwing his way. He turns to James. "Wasn't he, James? Bit of a freak."

"He's not," Sirius snaps, and the others both blink at him in surprise. "He's not weird. He's not a freak. He's just different."

They finish their drinks in uncomfortable near-silence. James gallantly tries to broker peace by chatting about the new order of teabags they're getting in tomorrow, but it doesn't really work, and Pete slumps off home before ten as James just shakes his head hopelessly and wanders off to the bar to get another round in.

It takes a whole week for them to reach a tentative truce, when Pete suggests Sirius invite Remus to the pub for their usual Friday night drinks, and Sirius mutters something about Peter being an arsehole before James is whacking him round the back of the head with a wet dishrag and telling him to grow up, so he dutifully traipses off to Remus's that afternoon to ask him. It's not that he doesn't want Remus there; any time with Remus is a gift as far as Sirius is concerned, but their routine now feels so precious to them that he's loath to risk tipping the balance. Remus comes in for his breakfast, and Sirius brings him toast and porridge and pesters him at his table until he leaves. And every lunchtime, Sirius climbs the hill to Remus's cottage, and they spend the afternoon in the study, Remus working on his book and Sirius picking up where he left off in whatever volume he's reading that week. He finished the ones about the dragons by the end of July, and then there was a short book about Green Men full of fantastic drawings and maps of where to see the best carvings in England. He's about a third of the way through an ancient copy of _Tristan and Iseult_ now, that Remus had pulled from high on a shelf in the hallway and given to him about a week ago. It's all love potions and scandal so far, and Sirius isn't sure if Remus is trying to tell him something.

They share their usual pot of tea in the kitchen, and then Sirius tidies the cups away - something else that seems to have become a bit of an unspoken routine for them, and if Sirius didn't know better he'd worry that Remus was trying to trick him into becoming his housekeeper, or something.

"D'you fancy the pub on Friday?" he says lightly as he dries the mugs off and sets them back on the shelf, glancing over his shoulder at where Remus is watering a tomato plant on the windowsill overlooking the garden.

"No," Remus replies, and it's so blunt that Sirius can't help but laugh.

"Why not?" he asks, tucking his hands in his pockets and wandering over to join Remus near the window. "James and Pete want to catch up with you."

"I don't like the pub."

Sirius frowns. "How come?"

"Too many people."

"Ah."

He gets it. He thinks back to the morning with the tourists, when the café was heaving and the table in the window was taken, and how Remus had stayed on the other side of the threshold and pulled nervously at the threads of his fraying jumper. He thinks of the cottage, how they're tucked away behind the hill and how harried Remus had looked that first day when Sirius had turned up at the red front door unannounced. And he gets it.

"What about," he says slowly, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against the counter next to Remus, choosing his words carefully, "if we sit outside? In the beer garden at the front? Loads of space there."

Remus sighs, gazing out of the window down the coast, and there's a part of Sirius that feels guilty for pushing him. He's got his own meticulous routine, for better or worse, and maybe it's not fair to interrupt that. But then, Sirius thinks, maybe it's just as unfair to simply leave him to it; he shouldn't be so cut off from the rest of the world, and maybe he does just need that little push.

"I might need the bathroom," Remus says quietly, and Sirius frowns.

"Okay..."

"So I would have to go inside," he goes on, and Sirius can see a faint flush creeping up past the neck of his baggy grey jumper. "To go to the bathroom."

 _God_ , but his heart aches for him then, and he curses himself of a month ago for thinking Remus was anything other than utterly wonderful. He's not odd, or any of the other horrible things he's heard and, mortifyingly, tacitly agreed with on occasion. He's perfect, and alone, and he just struggles with things sometimes. It doesn't make him lesser, though, in any way; it just makes him Remus. 

"You don't have to come," Sirius says softly after a moment, watching as Remus keeps staring out of the window at the sea. "But I'd really like it if you did. And we can sit in the garden, and you won't have to go inside, and if you need the bathroom the café's two minutes down the road and we can just go there. Yeah?"

He thinks he holds his breath. Remus chews on his lip, obviously deep in thought, and Sirius glances down to see his fingers drumming lightly on the edge of the sink; a steady, repetitive pattern, tapped out against the porcelain.

"Alright," Remus says quietly after a long moment, and then, miraculously, turns to face Sirius. "If you stay with me, I'll come."

"Of course I will." He looks down at Remus's hand resting on the counter next to the sink now, his own inches away, and he watches himself reach across and tentatively nudge Remus's index finger with his own. "Of course I'll stay with you."

Remus is particularly grouchy on Friday afternoon when Sirius heads up after lunch. He bustles about the cottage, cup of tea sitting untouched on the table opposite Sirius, muttering something about a book he's lost which Sirius eventually helps him find under a pile of jumpers on a piano stool in the dining room. He'd asked Remus for his number earlier, so that he could text him when they were at the pub, but Remus doesn't have a mobile - because of course he doesn't - so they agree instead to meet outside the café, just the pair of them, to walk along to the pub to meet the others. Sirius leaves around two, because Lily's coming down for the weekend and he promised James he'd take over his afternoon shift whilst he went to the train station to pick her up, and he feels all kinds of guilty when he shuts the door on a muttering Remus hunched over his writing desk, foot tapping out a frantic rhythm against his chair leg. 

He's there, though, at six, outside the café when Sirius locks up early and bounces down the steps to meet him. It's a balmy evening, thankfully, and Remus looks his usual wonderful self in trousers that are a bit too short and a threadbare jumper the colour of Earl Grey tea.

"Hi," Sirius says softly, grinning. He thinks about drawing Remus into a hug, or giving him a kiss on the cheek, but the name of the game tonight is very much to Not Spook Remus, and he doesn't think brazen displays of public affection are going to be the best place to start. "Ready to go?"

"Okay," Remus murmurs, hoisting his satchel further onto his shoulder, and Sirius can tell just by looking at it that it's full of books. How entirely like Remus to bring a bagful of books to the pub.

The others are all sitting outside when they arrive, James and Lily having got there early under strict instruction to claim the table furthest from the door, at the edge of the beer garden, where you can see the sea through the cracks between the cottages opposite. James hadn't questioned it, and Sirius had felt a rush of love for him in that moment. He gives Pete, on the other hand, a warning glare as they clamber onto the benches to join them, and then James is pushing a beer and an orange juice towards them whilst Lily - looking radiant as ever, wild red hair burning in the final light of the day's sun - blows a kiss to Sirius in greeting before setting about quietly chatting to Remus from her seat next to him.

It goes like that for the next hour or so; Remus only really talks to Lily and Sirius, and James and Pete don't bother him, and Sirius talks to everyone, and it should be awkward and stilted but it works, somehow. James disappears inside at one point and emerges with portions of chips, and Sirius takes a bowl from the centre of the table and drags it over for him and Remus to share before Pete douses the rest of them in ketchup and mayonnaise. James does chat to Remus then, from across the table, and asks lightly about the cottage and Remus's book and it's all just lovely, and Sirius feels himself relaxing against Remus's side as he sips at his pint. 

The pub starts to get busier around nine; the sun slips over the horizon behind the cottages on the sea front, and the glass café lights overhead click on and cast a pretty golden grow across the garden. The table next to them is taken over by a large group carrying uncountable bottles of wine a little while later, and there's a great roar from inside the bar as someone drops a tray of something, the crowd erupting in applause.

It takes Sirius much longer than it should to notice the way Remus's foot is tapping urgently against the leg of the table.

"You alright?" he murmurs to him, running his thumb lightly over the delicate bone of his wrist to get his attention. He glances at him, taking care so as not to alert the others, and his stomach drops when he sees him. He's biting down on his bottom lip, staring unseeingly across the table out towards the sea, and Sirius can see his chest rising and falling much faster than it should under his layers of frayed wool. "Remus?"

Remus shakes his head minutely, and then Sirius is carefully clambering off the bench, coaxing Remus to follow him as he grabs his bag for him and waves off the others, saying something about forgetting something at the café and needing to go back and check. He catches James watching them with concern as they leave the garden, and he throws him a quick thumbs up before leading Remus off down the street, away from the noise and the light and the crowded pub.

"It's alright," he says softly, a hand resting gently on Remus's lower back as he steers him back towards the steps to the café. "It's okay."

But Remus clearly isn't listening. He's breathing heavily through his nose now, his fingers trembling where they pluck desperately at the cuff of his jumper, and Sirius fumbles with his keys as he hurriedly tries to unlock the restaurant. He ushers Remus inside off the street, the commotion from the pub up the road still winding its way down the cobbles towards them, hounding them, and then he's closing the door and sitting Remus at his table in the window and crouching down in front of him, steadying hands resting loosely on Remus's knees.

"Breathe," he tells him, and Remus ducks his head as he chokes the air down, gulping and panting and shaking his head in desperation.

"I can't," he gasps, and Sirius wants to cry himself when he sees tears begin to run down Remus's cheeks.

He swallows hard, and rubs light, reassuring circles into the fabric of Remus's trousers with his thumbs, and nods up at him. "Yes you can," he says, calmly. "Just copy me."

They stay there for almost fifteen minutes, by Sirius's count and the clock on the wall, and Sirius is just starting to get properly worried when Remus finally seems to get his breath under control. He looks utterly exhausted, slumped forward in his chair, still hiding his face but, incredibly, finding Sirius's hand where it rests on his thigh and clasping it in his, all trembling fingers and sweaty palm. Thoughts of his parents' house come unwittingly to mind: Regulus with a tear-stained face after Sirius has talked back to their father over dinner and been escorted away behind closed doors to pay penance; his own shaking hands as he dials James's number in the corner of a dark room, speaking in hushed tones for fear of his voice carrying down the hall. It's not the same, but it's close enough to bring a lump to his throat, and as the minutes tick by and neither one of them relinquishes their hold on the other, he can't say for sure who's using who as a lifeline.

"Nothing happened to me."

Sirius looks up.

"What?" he asks softly, voice barely above a whisper.

"Nothing happened to me," croaks Remus, pulling his hand back and running it through his hair, curls awry from where he's been grasping at it. "To make me like this. Nothing happened to make me like this."

"Nothing has to," Sirius says gently after a moment, taking Remus's hand back in his. Remus doesn't protest, and Sirius finds his thumb running slow circles across the back of Remus's palm of its own accord. "Nothing has to happen. I don't think you have to go through something... awful, or tragic, to feel like this. Sometimes it just... happens."

Remus nods, sniffing, and finally glances across at Sirius in the dim light of the café. He doesn't say anything, though; they sit for a long while, Remus sipping carefully at the water Sirius brings him from the tap behind the bar, and Sirius watching him, still tracing soothing shapes across the back of his hand.

"I'm so sorry I made you come tonight," he murmurs at length. The skin beneath Remus's eyes looks tight with salt, and Sirius hates himself.

"You didn't."

"I did, really."

"No," Remus says quietly, shaking his head. "You didn't. I wouldn't have come if I didn't want to."

Sirius pauses. "Did you want to, though?"

Remus looks at him, holding his gaze, and Sirius realises with a jolt that it's the first time that's ever happened; the first time it hasn't been a cursory glimpse over a book or a wordless, blinking stare when Sirius has done something particularly annoying. He's never felt so seen; so studied and held. It's remarkable.

"I wanted to see you."

For the briefest moment, the hot flush of guilt Sirius feels for bringing Remus out tonight subsides and is washed over by something golden at Remus's words; he wanted to see him. He _wants_ to see him, and Sirius wouldn't have been pursuing this so doggedly since they met if he didn't think Remus wanted it too, somewhere deep inside him, but as the weeks have worn on Sirius can't deny that there's been a part of him quietly coming to a resigned realisation that they might see out the summer having barely even shared as much as a glance, never mind spoken words that confess to what's happening between them, and hint at more to come.

"I should probably go home," Remus mumbles, breaking through Sirius's moment of revelation, and Sirius nods.

"I'll walk you back," he says, and then they're slipping out of the café and locking up and walking slowly through town, further away from the pub and out past the church at the end of the lane. They pick their way silently through the meadow by moonlight, following the dirt path over the crest of the hill and back down towards the cottage, and Sirius curses his own stupidity again at the thought that Remus could've ended up walking back here alone, in the dark, on the cliff edge. His own complete lack of foresight and thought appals him.

They stop outside the gate to the rose garden, and Sirius watches as Remus reaches for the latch, hesitates, and then turns back to face him. It's cloudless, the moonlight picking out Remus's freckles in silver, and Sirius has barely registered what's happening before Remus is leaning in and pressing his lips firmly, chastely, to his own. Sirius's mind is entirely blank, then; it's just the ocean and the dark night sky and a low, distant humming that could be coming from inside his own chest or from deep within the earth itself. _Probably a dragon_ , his brain supplies wildly. 

He hadn’t expected kissing Remus to feel like this. He’s thought about it a lot over the past month or so; at first, he thought it might be like kissing stone. Cold and unyielding, something rough and mineral pressed to Sirius's lips. He’d dismissed that after just a few days of speaking to Remus in the café, and decided it would be like the wind instead, all mist and smoke trails, something ethereal that might disappear at any moment. But it’s neither of those things; it’s like something from the earth, full of poetry and strength, ancient and deep, and Sirius decides then and there that all the adages about the greatest kisses turning legs to jelly simply aren't true. He feels more grounded than ever; rooted in the soil beneath him, firm and steadfast, unmovable. There's something in Remus that does that, he thinks; something in his books about legends and the trees and the Green Men. It's extraordinary.

"What was that for?" he breathes when Remus pulls back, but Remus doesn't answer. He's already walking away, leaving Sirius there outside the rose garden, and then he's unlocking his door and stepping inside the cottage.

"See you tomorrow," he says softly as he flicks on the light in the hallway, and then, over his shoulder: "Don't fall off the cliff on your way back."

A laugh bursts from Sirius's lips, and he shakes his head in wonder at the red door when it closes and he’s left standing alone on the other side of the iron gate, the waves crashing like thunder on the rocks far below. 


	2. Chapter 2

"Have you thought any more about London, pet?"

Effie smiles across at Sirius encouragingly, reaching over the table to top up his wine glass. It's Sunday, so an early finish for him and James, and he'd spent a glorious afternoon at the cottage reading about the castles of Cornwall, stretched out on a blanket underneath Remus's study window whilst James was driving Lily back to the train station and closing up the café until Monday morning. Remus had come out to join him in the garden just after lunchtime as he's taken to doing, and Sirius had grinned at him in his trousers and knitted jumper despite the warm August sun. The kiss after the ill-fated night at the pub had, joyously, turned out to be the first of many, and Sirius has found in the past week that he simply has never known happiness like being laid out in a rose garden near the sea, listening to the waves and the gulls as Remus Lupin pushes his tongue searchingly between his lips. Sirius had got carried away one afternoon and slipped a hand down the back of Remus's trousers to paw at the soft, smooth skin there, until Remus had pulled back and admitted to Sirius that he'd never done anything like that before, and Sirius had cursed himself and kissed Remus's nose and told him that they would go slowly; so slowly. Glacially, Sirius had promised; it was to be Remus's lead entirely, and if all that happens this summer are lazy kisses out on a blanket in the sun then that's still utter perfection in Sirius's eyes.

He had been interested, that being said, to learn that Remus really was _completely_ inexperienced. It's not as if his own back catalogue is a particularly weighty volume - the odd snog round the back of the swimming pool at school and the handful of guys at Cambridge notwithstanding - and he's not exactly drowning in experience himself, but it's more that he's not entirely sure that Remus has ever even _kissed_ someone before. What he might lack in finesse, though, he absolutely makes up for in effort, and their afternoons leave Sirius spent and dopey and aching for just one more press of Remus's warm lips.

James kicks him under the table, shaking him from his thoughts.

"Erm, yeah," says Sirius vaguely, poking at his carrots. "No, not really."

Effie quirks an eyebrow at him.

"I think I might just stay in Cornwall for a while."

He isn't even aware he's been thinking it until the words leave his lips. The plan had always been to come here for the summer, and then head back up to London with James in September; James would go do his Masters, and Sirius would... figure something out. Get a job, or something. Maybe his own place, because he's under no illusions that James and Lily won't be wanting to buy somewhere together before the end of the year. That was the plan, scant as it was, and now Sirius is blinking curiously at his roast potatoes as a second option is suddenly opened up to him, unexpected and new; just stay in Padstow, and work at the restaurant, and figure things out here instead.

"Since when?" says James through a mouthful of cauliflower. "I thought you were coming back with me?"

"If Sirius wants to stay here, he can stay here," Fleamont supplies kindly from the head of the table. Sirius could kiss him.

"Definitely," Effie agrees, spooning apple sauce onto her plate. "We'll be glad to have you at the restaurant; I was dreading having to hire a whole new staff when you three left."

"I bet I know why you want to stay," says James through a grin, clocking on. He's got a bit of carrot stuck on his front tooth.

"Shut up, James."

He's still feeling prickly about no longer being able to keep his mornings and nights here and his afternoons out at the cottage separate anymore. They'd all been more than understanding following the evening at the pub, James ringing him shortly after he'd left Remus's to check that everything was okay, and Lily sending him a message later that night asking if there was anything she could do to help. And it's not as if any of them did anything wrong; they were all perfectly pleasant to Remus, just like Sirius had instructed them to be, and really it was him who'd messed up by inviting Remus there in the first place. But he still wishes the two could be kept apart; the real world and Remus's world. It just feels safer, or something.

"What's this?" smiles Fleamont, sipping his wine and looking over his glasses at Sirius. "Have you got a fancy man?"

"Oh god," Sirius groans, and then Effie is bustling about the table and telling her husband and son to be quiet and leave Sirius alone, and he makes a mental note to buy her a bunch of flowers from the florist at the bottom of the hill in the morning.

"You can stay as long as you want, Sirius," she tells him again later that night, when James and Fleamont have left to walk down to the pub for a pint and the two of them are sitting out on the patio, looking down into the valley and over the bay, boats twinkling on the water out towards the horizon. "We'll be heading back up to London at some point so Fleamont can get some work done, but we'll be back, some weekends. And definitely at Christmas." She smiles across at him over her glass of rosé. "But you just stay as long as you want, love."

"Thanks, Effie," he nods, and he really means it. He still can't quite conceive of how he got so lucky as to have the Potters in his life. He doesn't dare wonder where he might be without them, and then he thinks of Remus out in his cottage all alone on the cliffs, and something incredibly sad twists inside him.

"And don't worry about the rest of it, either," Effie goes on, her face growing a little sterner. "All those court documents and bank statements and all that other nonsense. You leave that with us."

They've both been an absolute godsend this past year, more so than usual; the endless stream of papers he gets through from his parents' lawyers seem designed to purposefully confuse him, which he guesses they probably are, and he's unspeakably grateful to Fleamont for taking it all off his plate and making it go away. A job and a roof over his head on top of all that seems more than he deserves, really, and he feels a traitorous lump in his throat when he nods across at her.

"Thanks," he murmurs, taking a glug of wine to distract himself.

"It's Remus, isn't it?"

He splutters into his glass.

"What?"

"I'm sorry," begs Effie, giving him a somewhat pained smile. "I know I told Fleamont to stop being nosey, but I heard from Poppy that you'd been visiting him and I couldn't not ask."

Sirius stares at her, shaking his head in bewilderment.

"Unbelievable," he mutters, but there's no sting in it, and he rolls his eyes as Effie clutches her wine glass and raises her eyebrows in anticipation. "Yes," he sighs after a moment, holding his hand up in defeat. "Yes, it's Remus."

"Oh, that's lovely," Effie gushes, setting her glass aside and beaming at him. "He's a sweet boy."

"You know him?" Sirius asks, frowning.

"Just from the café," Effie nods, reaching across to top up Sirius's drink. "They were here when we bought the farm, the Lupins. Living out in that cottage. I used to see them in town sometimes; he was always a quiet little thing, even when he was young," she nods, looking out at the bay. "And his parents were..."

"Were what?"

She shrugs, taking a sip from her glass. "I don't like to speak poorly of people, but I never thought very much of either them."

Sirius frowns, and something cold grips the back of his neck. He sees dark corridors and dark rooms and locked doors, missed meals and raised voices and his brother crying on the stairs.

"Were they like mine?" he asks quietly, dreading the answer.

Effie gives him a look he can't quite decipher, and reaches over to squeeze his hand where it's resting on the patio table. "No, I don't think so, love," she says softly, sadly. "Just very aloof. Like they were never really here."

Sirius isn't sure whether he's relieved or not, because he's honestly not sure which is worse: a childhood with parents who actively dislike you, or a childhood with parents who don't care about you either way. Both are odious.

"And then they just went?" he frowns, remembering what Poppy had said in the bakery that first morning before he'd gone to the cottage. "Just left him?"

"Something like that," Effie nods. "They got a divorce, I think, and both went their separate ways, and Remus just... stayed."

"Why?"

"I don't know," she shrugs, taking another sip of wine. "Maybe he just likes it here."

Sirius shakes his head. "He's just out in that cottage, rattling around by himself," he says, his voice curiously fragile, barely above a whisper. "He's so alone."

There's a long silence, and then Effie is giving his hand another squeeze, and smiling across at him over her glass.

"I don't think he's alone anymore, is he?" she prompts softly. "Poppy said she's never seen him like this. I think you're becoming quite special to him."

Sirius doesn't know what to say about that.

***

He doesn't tell Remus about his plans straightaway. He still seems too easily spooked, too likely to bolt if Sirius inadvertently comes on too strong or too quick and it still feels like an incredibly delicate balance they're mastering; Sirius in the café and Remus in his cottage and the overgrown path through the wildflower meadow between them. August comes and goes in long, easy days, always the same, always perfect. Remus finishes writing one book and starts another - something about wood nymphs and apple trees - and Sirius finds himself uncharacteristically lost for words one afternoon when he's washing the teapot out in the cottage kitchen and sees a half-opened brown paper package on the table, the printed cover of a book poking out from inside, the initials " _R. J. Lupin_ " in gilt capitals just visible.

"Remus?" he calls down the hall, staring at the book in his hands. Remus appears a moment later, frowning.

"What?" he snaps, clearly annoyed at having been interrupted. Once he's started writing, Sirius has learnt, he can't abide breaking off unless it's on his own terms. Even the offer of another cup of tea usually just gets a gruff dismissal in response.

"You didn't tell me this was actually being published," Sirius says softly, running his thumb over Remus's name on the cover. He looks over and smiles at him. "This is amazing."

Remus shrugs. "I suppose so."

"You suppose so?" Sirius says, raising his eyebrows at him and crossing the kitchen to take his face in his hands. "It _is_ amazing, Remus. You're amazing."

He leaves him with a kiss on the end of his nose, and the look of utter bewilderment Remus gives him when he turns up the next day with a celebratory bottle of champagne - non-alcoholic, minding Remus's allergies - is priceless.

The sun seems to set for good at the beginning of September, and hazy summer days once again retreat and leave dull, overcast mornings in their wake. Pete leaves for London, and the tourists stop coming to the café, and afternoons spent lounging in the rose garden on a blanket move back indoors to the overstuffed armchair in Remus's study. It's a blustery day halfway through the month that finds Sirius wandering the halls of the cottage with a cup of tea in hand, noseying at all the nooks and crannies he's overlooked during his weeks on the lawn outside. There's a little sitting room at the back of the house that they've never spent any amount of time in - it doesn't get much sun on the brighter days, and the Aga in the kitchen keeps them warm enough now that the temperature has dropped and the clouds have drawn in - and he steps inside, noting the usual stacks of books covering every surface, and a great map in a gilt frame mounted over the fireplace. He's glimpsed it from the hall before, but never got a proper look, and as he approaches he sees that it's not Cornwall like he always thought; it's Camelot. He smiles as he takes in the delicate penwork, the castles and moats, a great charging river running through the land, meandering round forests and outcrops and jagged, snow-topped peaks, and then he sees the signature etched in ink in the corner of the frame: _R. J. Lupin._

He lowers himself into a low armchair at the side of the fireplace and sets his cup of tea down on the hearth, scrubbing at his face with his hands and huffing out a long, quiet breath. It's all so ridiculous, really; dragons and kings and make-believe lands full of make-believe people. He should find it utterly ludicrous, but it's just so _Remus_ , and his passion for this stuff is so heart-achingly earnest that Sirius finds that every new facet to it, every turned page and uncovered ritual and carefully transcribed map just makes him fall more and more into something he really never expected to feel for the other man. He laughs at his own madness; maybe there's something in the water down here that makes him so susceptible to such wild trails of fantasy.

There's another frame propped on a side table next to the armchair, and it catches Sirius's eye as he reaches for his tea. He picks it up and studies the photograph: it's a couple, a man and a woman standing side by side outside this very cottage on what looks like an autumn day, the roses dying back around the windows and the grass along the path strewn with leaves in tan and umber. The man's tall, like Remus; all errant curls and deep, searching eyes, the woman's nose dusted with freckles that Sirius can pick out even on the faded print.

"What are you doing?"

He nearly drops both his tea and the frame at Remus's voice in the doorway.

"Nothing," he says hurriedly, putting the photograph back on the side table and standing between it and Remus. "Just being nosy."

Remus frowns at him, and then he's walking past him and picking the frame back up, wiping the glass with the sleeve of his jumper as if Sirius might've left fingerprints all over it.

"I’m sorry, Remus," Sirius says softly, watching him. "I didn't mean to pry."

There's a long, drawn-out silence, in which Remus is just standing by the low table and glaring at him, and Sirius is hovering awkwardly by the chair, and Sirius knows it's going to be up to him to break it.

"I don't see my parents, either," he says at length, giving Remus what he hopes is a sympathetic smile.

"Why not?" Remus asks bluntly. It's not exactly laden with empathy, but then, Sirius didn't really expect it to be.

Sirius blows out a low breath, shrugging. "Irreconcilable differences?" he offers. "They're not very nice people."

"My parents are nice people," Remus says plainly.

"That's good," Sirius smiles, his voice soft. "Do you speak to them?"

"Sometimes."

Sirius nods, looking back down at the photograph in the frame, and then across to the map over the mantelpiece. He really is prying, now. He knows this is none of his business and he probably shouldn't be asking, but he also knows that the existence of real-life dragons is orders of magnitude more likely than Remus ever sharing this kind of thing voluntarily, unprompted, and if Sirius feels like a weasel for trying to get it out of him regardless it's overcome, quite easily, by the desperate need for Remus to be less alone, less isolated in all this. To just share _something_ so that Sirius might help him carry it.

"Why did you stay?" he finally asks, so gently, looking back to Remus with a small, searching expression.

"Because I couldn't choose."

"Between them?"

Remus nods, twirling a loose thread from the sleeve of his jumper between the fingers of his left hand. "They wanted to leave and they wanted me to choose, and I couldn't. So I just stayed here."

There's something, then, that slots into place in Sirius's mind. As if the whole of Remus suddenly makes more sense than it did a moment ago. The routine, and the pattern, and the obstinate aversion to even the smallest deviance from it. No choices; it's the same thing, at the same time, always. Remus never has to choose. It's just the same walk to the café, and the same porridge. The same pot of tea. The same table in the window before the same trip to the library, and it's only then that Sirius realises how fantastically unlikely it is that Remus has allowed him to slot so comfortably into his days at all since the start of the summer. If his essence is order, and never having to make a choice, then how wonderful and strange that Sirius's arrival didn’t cause some great upset, some terrible unravelling of whatever holds Remus together. How curious, Sirius thinks, that when Remus's shield did crumble - that night at the pub, with the noise and the people and the too, too much - it was _Sirius_ that helped him piece it back together, and all the legends and all the stories couldn't hope to hold a candle to the unlikeliness of that, dragons be damned. It's something mythical in itself.

"Hey," he says softly, taking a careful step towards Remus and holding his face between his palms, running a thumb gently over the freckled skin across Remus's cheekbone. "Thank you for telling me that."

Remus blinks at him, and then Sirius is gently pressing their lips together in a chaste kiss. He feels Remus relax slightly under his touch, and then there's a hand on his lower back, fingers turning lightly in the fabric of his jumper.

They return to the kitchen then, and Sirius boils the kettle whilst Remus takes his usual place at the scrubbed wooden table in the centre of the room and watches Sirius make their tea.

"Why King Arthur?" Sirius asks after a moment's comfortable silence, and he glances over his shoulder to see Remus frowning at him. "How did you get into all this?"

He sees the draw, of course; a lonely Remus as a boy, hiding away in the library where he can slip away at will to ancient lands filled with wondrous, noble characters; knights and brothers and great leaders to teach him the lessons his detached, absent parents perhaps never found the time for. Something in Sirius feels a little wistful at that; how he would've loved to have a Camelot to escape to in the darker moments of his own childhood.

"I read a lot," says Remus. "We went on a school trip once to Tintagel and I bought a book at the gift shop and I liked it. So I just kept reading."

"Uther's castle?" Sirius smiles, passing a mug to Remus and clambering onto the bench opposite him. It's in all the reference books he's been poring over for the past two months; a great pile of medieval stone crowning a jagged outcrop a few miles up the coast; a fortress defending against invaders, stronghold of the great kings of the Britons. Depending on which version of the legend one believes, Sirius reminds himself, sipping his tea.

"I need to take you there," Remus says abruptly, and Sirius blinks at him.

"Really?"

Remus nods, pulling a notebook from the pile next to him on the bench and beginning to scribble away in it, tea forgotten. "Yes," he murmurs, hunching over his book, the usual little crease of concentration appearing and pinching the spot between his eyebrows. "You haven't been, and you really should."

"Why?" asks Sirius. He's grinning as he watches Remus across the table, thrilled that he's being offered a glimpse into somewhere clearly so special to the other boy. It makes him feel slightly giddy.

"Because it's an important place," Remus mutters, not looking up. "And I want to show it to you."

It's a week later that Sirius glances up from behind the counter in the café to see Remus walking across the floor towards him, and the teapot he's been cleaning would've been in bits if it wasn't for James catching it awkwardly by its spout when Sirius drops it, the lid skittering off somewhere under the sink.

"What's wrong?" Sirius asks Remus with wide eyes when he reaches them. It's the first time in the whole summer that Sirius has seen Remus step further into the shop than his table at the window, and James frowns with abject confusion when Remus turns to address him, rather than Sirius.

"You need to give Sirius the day off on Friday," he says plainly, brokering no discussion, and James blinks at him.

"Do I?"

"Yes," Remus nods, hoisting his book bag higher onto his shoulder. "I'm taking him to Tintagel Castle, so he won't be able to work that day. You'll need to find someone else."

James barks out a surprised laugh, looking between Remus and Sirius to see if there's a joke he's perhaps missing. Sirius shrugs and offers him a tentative, hopeful smile, and then James is shaking his head and going back to counting the money in the till.

"Sounds like I've got no choice in the matter," he tuts, and Remus must be satisfied with that because he's giving strict instructions to Sirius to meet him outside the library at eight o'clock on Friday morning, and to wear a proper coat because it gets windy out at the castle, and Sirius just grins at him dopily from behind the bar.

"And bring a notepad and a pen," adds Remus as an afterthought. "I need to do some research and I might need you to write some things down."

"Okay," Sirius agrees, still grinning like a fool, and then Remus is nodding and leaning across the counter to press an unexpected, lingering kiss against Sirius's lips. It lasts a fraction longer than is perhaps appropriate in public, and then he's pulling away and walking out of the café, and Pomona throws Sirius a roguish wink from her table by the door as James shakes his head again in bemusement and disappears off into the kitchen, muttering to himself.

It's drizzling lightly when Sirius leaves the farm on Friday morning to walk down to town, and he tugs the hood of Fleamont's cagoule forward over his hair, zipping the jacket up to his chin. He's got his prescribed notepad and pen tucked into his rucksack, along with a flask of tea; Remus's desire to take Sirius to Tintagel seems to have, incredibly, superseded his usual slot for breakfast at the café, so Sirius fills a small Tupperware with Effie's porridge too, wrapping it in a checkered tea towel from the kitchen to keep it warm until they can share it.

Sirius has seen the battered old Defender parked outside the cottage every day since he started visiting, but it's still a surprise when it pulls up outside the library at eight o'clock on the dot and Sirius peers inside to see a raincoated Remus at the steering wheel. 

"I didn't realise you drove," he says as he clambers up into the car, tugging the door shut behind him and pushing his hood down as he leans over to give Remus a peck on the cheek in greeting.

"Of course I drive," mutters Remus, checking his mirrors before setting the car trundling off down the cobbles. "How else would I go places?"

"I don't drive," shrugs Sirius, setting his rucksack down in the footwell. It's misty outside, low clouds hanging over the water when they round the cottages at the end of the high street and the sea comes into view. He yawns, looking across at Remus. "What other places do you go to?"

"Camelford," Remus says, shifting the Defender up a gear as they break out onto the coastal road. "Castle Killibury. Slaughterbridge."

They're all names Sirius now recognises; villages and landmarks dotted around the Cornish coast, all with their own links to the myth. He remembers Slaughterbridge from a book he read last month about Arthur's last stand against the traitor Mordred; the final battle of Camlann before Arthur awayed to Avalon to die.

"Is that where you were at the start of the summer?"

Remus frowns. "What?"

"You didn't come into the café for the first couple of weeks that I was down here," Sirius reminds him, looking across at him. "James said you were away."

"No, I wasn't," says Remus, watching the road. "I was just poorly."

"Oh, Remus."

He doesn't mean it to sound patronising, but it sort of does anyway. The thought of Remus being ill and hidden away in his cottage up over the cliff, having to take care of himself alone and not having anyone around to bring him tea or take his temperature or check he's not bloody dying from some horrible reaction to something makes Sirius physically ache, and he feels a violent, ugly stab of disgust towards Remus's parents for abandoning him as they did. He thinks, then, back to the night at the pub, and how Remus had told him that nothing had happened to make him the way he is - the routine, the detachment, the insistence on self-sufficiency to the point of almost absolute isolation - and wonders if Remus realises at all that his own parents have to be at least in part the architects of his torment. If there’s one thing Sirius understands, it’s this, and he finds himself equally pained and enamoured by the growing realisation of just how similar the two of them are. 

"I brought us some porridge," he says quietly, forcibly coming back to himself. "Shall we stop and have some breakfast?"

They pull over halfway up the coast, stopping in a lay-by that looks out over the sea and watching the drizzle settle finely on the windscreen. Sirius pours them both a cup of tea from the flask in his rucksack, and Remus quietly tucks into the porridge which, by the look on his face, must be precisely the right temperature. They press on after that, and park up in a space outside a visitor's centre at the edge of a village just after nine o'clock. There's a spot at the edge of the car park that looks out across the inlet towards the sea, and Sirius closes his eyes as he stands and lets the mist settle on his skin, listening to the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs down below whilst Remus pays for their parking and locks up the car.

"It's better when it's like this," Remus says when he walks across to join Sirius on the outcrop, the hood of his jacket pulled up over his curls. "Quieter."

They head out of the car park and up through the village, Remus following the route as if he's walked it a thousand times. They pass inns and taverns, all medieval houses with whitewashed walls and dark timber frames, and Remus is right: there's hardly anyone else here. Between it being a damp, misty Friday morning and the last days of the season, they've all but got the place to themselves, alone save for the odd person sitting on a bench or heading into the Post Office. They stop at an old building halfway up the main street, and duck inside out of the fog, stepping into a great hall with a cavernous, beamed ceiling, stained-glass windows colouring the grey light from outside and casting fractals around the polished oak floor. At one end of the hall is a vast stone dais hosting a high-backed throne, and at the other, a wooden table; round, of course, and inlaid with shields and ornate gilt lettering.

" _Here ought to sit Sir Lancelot_ ," Sirius reads quietly, tracing his fingers over the words ingrained into the wood. "Hey," he says, looking over to where Remus is studying one of the decorated glass panels at the far end of the room. "Which knight do you reckon you'd be?"

"None of them," Remus mutters, noting something down in his book.

Sirius grins. "You'd be Arthur, right?" he says, wandering over to stand next to Remus and looking up at the window above them. 

"No," sighs Remus. "Not him, either."

They walk through to a smaller chamber then, filled with golden frames and tapestries and coats of arms hanging on the bare stone walls.

"Who's that?" Sirius asks, peering at a painting of a pale, elfin woman, draped in lace and fine silks.

"Lady Ragnell," mutters Remus, still jotting things down in his notepad. "She appeared to Arthur as an old crone, offering him aid if only his most noble knight would marry her."

"Gawain," Sirius murmurs, surprising himself. The knights of the round table feel as familiar to him now as his old classmates; afternoons spent curled up in the armchair in Remus's study, battling the Giant of Mont Saint-Michel with Sir Bedivere, following Sir Percival as he retrieves Excalibur from the faerie folk, and drinking from the Holy Grail itself alongside Galahad and Sir Bors the Younger. And Gawain; the most noble and handsome of them all, compassionate and kind and a fierce friend to the outcasts of the realm. It's not a knowledge base he ever expected to acquire, and he thinks happily of all the years of expensive schooling paid for by his parents that have probably been pushed out to make room for it.

"Yes," Remus says, blinking at him. "Well remembered."

Sirius grins at him, looking back to the painting. "So did he marry her?"

"He did. And when he kissed her, she turned into a fair maiden before his eyes."

"Don't they always?"

Remus sniffs, going back to his notepad.

"What happened in the end?" Sirius asks.

"She gave Gawain a choice."

Sirius looks across at him, waiting.

"Either she could be beautiful in the daytime, when they were apart," Remus goes on, staring up at the painting himself now. "Or at night, when they were together."

"Which did he choose?"

"He didn't,” Remus shrugs, his voice soft and distant. “He gave the choice back to her, and she chose to be beautiful always."

They leave the hall a short while later, notebooks tucked safely back into backpacks, and walk until they reach a fork in the road near a tiny bakery. Remus takes the left-most path and leads them off down a narrow track out towards the coast; the rain has died away now, nothing more than a fine mist clinging to Sirius's hair, but the wind still whips around them fiercely and Sirius closes his eyes as he takes in a great, bracing breath of sea air. 

"What else can you remember?" Remus asks him as they round a hillock and the coast lurches back into view, all crags and gullies rushing down to wave-torn beaches scattered with scree. Sirius can make out the ruins of the castle ahead of them; great slumps of stone, stretching out across the headland, breaking and winding through the gorse, and he fancies he can hear the tales of old on the wind as it whips around the remnants of the ancient fortress. He shivers.

"Lots of things," he says, following Remus down a narrow set of uneven steps and out onto a sheltered hillside. There's a craggy archway ahead of them with a weathered, wooden door ajar, and Sirius can see the rough iron sea raging against the cliffs beyond. "Gawain, and Percival and all the others. And Tristan and Iseult from Ireland, and the affair they hid from King Mark, and how that probably inspired the story of Guinevere and Lancelot. And the bit about Glastonbury Tor."

He goes on, reciting everything he can remember from the books he's read over the summer; the characters, the great beasts, the places and why they're important and what part they play in the Arthurian story. He talks about the cleric Geoffrey of Monmouth, and the castle itself, and about its place in the myths of the old kings of Cornwall. Remus just listens, walking by his side and nodding occasionally when Sirius questions if he's got something right.

"And it was Merlin who smuggled Uther in here in the first place," says Sirius, stopping beside Remus where he's come to stand at the edge of a path overlooking a narrow cove. "To meet Igraine, who would then become Arthur's mother."

"And that," Remus mutters, pointing down into the inlet, to a dark hollow in the cliffs opposite. "Is Merlin's cave."

"Where Merlin found the baby Arthur on the beach and carried him to safety."

Remus turns to Sirius, and to Sirius's utter delight there's the faintest hint of a smile pulling at his lips. It's quite possibly the most magnificent thing Sirius has ever seen.

"That's right," Remus says, still staring at Sirius. The wind darts around them as they stand on the edge of the outcrop, a light rain falling again to curl Remus's hair and leave a silver trail of mist across the bridge of his nose. Sirius can't look away; it's as if time itself stands still here, the weight of the past and the lore holding everything in stasis, immovable. They could be carved into the very stone of the cliffside itself, a monument to this moment until the end of days, steadfast and old and never changing. And then Remus breaks their gaze, and looks back out across the inlet towards the sea cave. "Of course, that's a much later addition to the myth," he adds quietly, and Sirius watches the line of his throat as he swallows. "Tennyson. So barely even worth noting."

"I think I'm going to stay."

He hadn't been planning on saying it today. He's sure he's made up his mind; he's been sure for weeks, months even, but every time he's come close to broaching the subject with Remus he's forced himself to hold back. For that enduring fear of spooking him, perhaps, or upsetting some delicate balance somewhere between them; it _works_ , this thing they've grown together, and Sirius has no doubt in his mind that it could work forever but every time he's thought about saying the words out loud, late at night in bed or standing behind the counter on a quiet day in the café, he's seen a shadow of uncertainty in Remus's answering gaze. Like maybe they weren't meant to last beyond the summer, and maybe this always had a tragic ending; Lancelot and Guinevere fading to nothing after such passion. He couldn't bear it.

"Why?" says Remus, and Sirius takes a deep breath.

"I mean, I never really had a plan," he shrugs, looking out to the sea and trying to ignore the hammering in his chest. "I was just going to go back up to London and figure something out there. But..." he shakes his head, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. His palms feel damp. "I like it here. So I might as well stay, and figure things out here instead."

The waves crash on the beach below, and the wind howls through the ruins on the hillside behind them, and a gull cries overheard. But Remus says nothing.

"It's just an idea, anyway," Sirius adds dismissively, breaking the silence.

"Are you staying for me?"

It's so abrupt that it takes Sirius completely off guard, and he only manages to catch himself just in time to stop the words _"Of course I am, I adore you"_ spilling from his lips. He shrugs again instead, and can't bring himself to look at Remus.

"There are lots of reasons," he says, his voice sounding strange and foreign to his own ears. "I like it here. I like the café, and the farm. It just works, at the moment. And," he adds, swallowing past something hard in his throat. "Yeah, I'm staying for you."

"Why?"

Sirius huffs out a humourless laugh, running a hand through his mist-dampened hair. "Why do you think, Remus?” he says quietly. “Because we haven't had enough time together, I suppose? Because I want to, I dunno, keep getting to know you? And the thought of going back to London and not seeing you every day just... doesn't really interest me," he finishes lamely, and when he chances a look across at Remus he sees him staring out to sea, his jaw tight and a deep crease pinching the spot between his brows.

"You should go back to London."

The world tilts on its axis, and Sirius feels something cold stab at his chest. He doesn't hear the gulls, or the waves, or the wind anymore; it's just the rushing of his own blood in his ears, and it's a long moment before he manages to gulp down the lump in his throat and nod, stuffing his hands back in his jacket pockets.

"Right," he murmurs, chewing on his bottom lip.

"It would just be better," says Remus, still looking out over the inlet.

"Yeah," Sirius nods, turning away from Remus to wipe roughly at his nose with his sleeve. "Yeah, fine."

They don't speak again after that. The magic of the ruins seems to dissipate around them as they climb back over the hill and through the old archway, the castle just piles of rubble and stone that now offer nothing to Sirius as he passes them. They walk in silence back along the path to the village, speaking only when Remus murmurs that he needs to duck into a public toilet at the end of the high street and Sirius quietly tells him he'll wait outside. The drive back along the coast is painful. Sirius slumps in the passenger seat, chewing on a loose strand of hair and blinking out unseeingly at the waves as they rush past, and when Remus pulls the car to a stop outside the café back in Padstow and switches the engine off they just sit there in silence for an uncomfortably long moment, a cold rain pattering against the windscreen.

"Thanks for showing me the castle," Sirius murmurs eventually, and it's so lacking he almost laughs. Remus just nods, though, and after another long silence Sirius gives up and slips out of the car onto the cobbles, pushing the door shut behind him and watching as Remus turns the key and drives away down the narrow road, disappearing round the corner of cottages.

***

He thinks it'll be the last time he sees Remus. He thinks that'll be it, and he'll pack his bags in a fortnight's time and leave with James on the train up to London, and when they come back down for Christmas he'll stay at the farm for the whole holiday and not come down into town and he'll never see him again. The thought terrifies him; what a terrible way for their story to end, and then he's thinking of Iseult again and wondering glumly if he's King Mark or Tristan, condemning her for her duplicity or loving her anyway and dying for it, but when the bell over the door in the café rings at nine o'clock the next morning he looks up and there's Remus, the same as always, pulling off his satchel and hunkering down at his seat in the window, piling his books and papers onto the table in front of him.

"Is he _joking_?" James mutters angrily from where he's standing next to Sirius behind the bar.

"Just leave it, please," says Sirius quietly, and tries to breathe through the pounding in his chest. James had got it out of him alarmingly quickly, when he'd slumped back into the farm's kitchen late yesterday afternoon. He hadn't realised quite how tragic he must've looked, but within minutes James had him set up with a cup of tea next to the hearth and was pacing backwards and forwards across the stone floor, ranting aimlessly about Remus.

"He doesn't deserve you," he'd raged wildly, shaking his head in fury and jabbing a finger in what Sirius assumed was supposed to be the vague direction of Remus's cottage. "He can just stay up there by himself, then, if that's what he wants. The idiot. Just forget about him, Sirius," he said, waving his hand in dismissal. "Just leave him to write about his sodding dragons."

"He doesn't really write about dragons," Sirius had murmured miserably, but James wasn't listening.

He slips away into the kitchen to set about making Remus's breakfast, porridge and toast and pot of tea all piled neatly onto his tray as usual before he's heading out across the café and depositing them carefully on Remus's table, in amongst his books. He holds his tray against himself then, waiting. Waiting for what, he isn't sure. Remus doesn't look up, and neither of them say anything, and eventually Sirius just shakes his head in defeat and walks unseeingly back into the kitchen where James is waiting with a hot chocolate and a hug and a ream of choice swear words muttered in Remus's direction.

It goes on like that for a week; a whole week of Remus coming in at his usual time for his usual breakfast, and James getting angrier by the day until Sirius has to physically restrain him in the kitchen on Saturday morning to stop him from going out to give Remus a piece of his mind.

"Please, just leave it," he begs, a firm hand on James's shoulder. "Please."

"It's absolutely not okay that he's still coming in here, Sirius."

Sirius nods. "I know," he says quietly. "But he's not doing it to be cruel."

"Isn't he?" spits James, looking past Sirius through the door and out towards where Remus is sitting, stirring his tea. "Why's he doing it then?"

"Because he can't do anything else."

"What does that even mean?"

"It's complicated, James," Sirius sighs, sinking down onto a footstool near the sink and running his hands through his hair. He feels, suddenly, completely exhausted. He looks up at where James is frowning down at him. "If he doesn't eat here," he says, "he won't eat at all. If he can't sit at that table, he'll leave. If he doesn't get to the library at ten o'clock and get the seat on the first floor by the window that faces north, he'll just go home because he can't do anything else."

"Jesus," James murmurs, rolling his eyes, and Sirius shakes his head up at him sadly.

"He doesn't choose to be like this, you know," he says, his voice thick. "He doesn't choose any of it. It's just how he is."

He's not sure how much of it James accepts, but he does seem to back off slightly after that, and when they head out into the café James walks over to collect Remus's coins from his table and manages to do so without creating a scene, so that's something, Sirius reasons.

It's such a slow day after the breakfast regulars that they decide to close up early, and lunchtime finds the two of them back up at the farm, lounging in James's room whilst he taps away at his laptop and Sirius lays on the bed, picking absently at a loose thread on the pillowcase.

"Do you want me to book your ticket as well?" murmurs James from behind the computer, and Sirius looks across at him.

"For what?"

"For the train," says James, pushing his glasses up on his nose and blinking over at Sirius. "I need to be back in London by first week of October."

Sirius rolls onto his back and stares up at the slanted ceiling. London. The thought is so incredibly depressing; living in a city he's never liked, with no plan and - in a few months - likely no James to live with, once he's moved in with Lily. He blows out a slow breath, and says nothing.

"You are still coming, yeah?" says James tentatively, and Sirius can feel him watching him. "You're not actually thinking of staying?"

"I don't know, James," Sirius says quietly, still looking up at the ceiling. "Maybe?"

"Not for him?"

Sirius shrugs into the pillow.

"Come on, Sirius," pleads James, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. "I love you, mate, but come on. Look what he's done to you!"

"He hasn't done anything to me," says Sirius despondently. "I just don't think I want to go back to London right now."

He hears James sigh, and then the tapping of keys starts up again, and he closes his eyes. He falls asleep eventually, right there on James’s bed, to the sound of typing and rain falling against the window, and dreams of nothing at all.

***

It's a grey Friday morning that sees a late-season throng of tourists pass in and out of the shop for takeaway sandwiches first thing, and Sirius is sent out to the butchers down the road to retrieve a few packets of bacon to see them through the rest of the day. He's stopped in the street on his way back by Irma from the library, who keeps him for almost fifteen minutes and tells him about all the new titles that she's got in that she knows Remus will be interested in, and Sirius gives her a tight smile and nods along and tries not to think about the way his chest is trying to cleave itself in two at the memory of sitting in Remus's study and poring over old books together, helping him make copies of drawings and maps and ancient, illuminated passages surrounded by wildflowers and ivy.

He escapes, eventually, with an empty promise to pass on the list to Remus, and when he finally makes it back to the café and shoulders the door open he's met with an irate James towering over Remus's table, brandishing a bowl of porridge.

"It's _fine,_ Remus," James snaps, paying no mind to Sirius hovering in the doorway.

"It's too hot," Remus says quietly, and Sirius sees him plucking at the sleeve of his jumper under the table.

"Then _wait,_ " says James slowly, as if he's speaking to a child. "Wait for it to cool down."

Sirius moves then, walking past them into the shop and taking the bowl of porridge from James before it ends up on the floor. "Stop it, James," he murmurs, trying to tug him away from the table and the way Remus's foot is tapping an insistent rhythm against the leg of his chair.

"No!" James snaps, snatching the bowl back from Sirius and plonking it down unceremoniously in front of Remus. "No, you can bloody eat it," he says, shoving the porridge across the table towards him. "Or you can leave it, I don't care. But you're not getting another one."

There's a deafening silence, and then, as expected, Remus is hurrying to stuff his papers haphazardly into his satchel and careening towards the door, breakfast forgotten.

"Jesus Christ, James," Sirius mutters, thrusting the package of bacon roughly into a stunned James's chest and following Remus onto the street outside. He calls after him, to no avail, and then he's striding down the cobbles, rounding him and blocking his path in the middle of the narrow road.

"Come back," Sirius says without preamble. "Come back inside, and I'll make you another bowl."

Remus doesn't look at him. He just stands there, staring at a spot somewhere around Sirius's knee, fingers clasped tightly around the straps of his satchel and there's no part of Sirius that even considers that he should just let him go. If he lets him go, then he won't eat, and he'll stay at his cottage all day and by the way James snapped at him just now he might not dare come back tomorrow; he might not eat breakfast then, either, or he might try go somewhere else and that might end in panic and tears and Sirius won't be there to put him back together so really, the only option is to just make him another bowl of porridge. It's the only thing that makes sense.

"I miss you."

It's so quiet that Sirius fancies it could almost have been the wind whispering through the gaps in the cottages lining the street, but then Remus is dragging his eyes up to meet Sirius's gaze and Sirius feels his heart shatter.

"I miss you," Remus says again, and he looks on the verge of tears as he chews on his bottom lip and rubs his thumb desperately against the edge of the leather where he's still grasping the strap of his satchel.

"You can't have this both ways," Sirius says quietly, and he doesn't think he's ever heard himself sound so sad. Not yesterday in James's room, or the day at the castle, or last winter when he'd said goodbye to Regulus for the final time. He shakes his head, sniffing, and looks out through the houses at the grey sea beyond. "Why did you tell me to go back to London?"

"Because you should," whispers Remus, and Sirius sighs in frustration.

"Why?" he snaps, and winces when he sees the line of worry on Remus's brow deepen.

"Because this can't work."

"Of course it can," says Sirius, shaking his head dumbly. "It _does_ work."

"But it won't," Remus insists, still looking at him, and Sirius wonders absently if this might be the longest they've ever maintained eye contact for. "It won't work. It works now, but it won't. It'll have to change." He shrugs desperately, the corners of his mouth turning downwards. "It'll change, and I can't. I need to come here every morning, and then go to the library, and then go home, and you fit into that now because you can see me at the café and then come to my house in the afternoons and that works. But that will have to change."

Sirius knows, without even thinking, that that's the most Remus has ever said out loud to him in one go.

"Why?" he says pleadingly, his voice almost a whisper.

"Because you'll want more."

Sirius blinks at him in confusion.

"Remus," he says carefully. "I'm not bothered about... sex. I know that that's new to you, and I can wait for that, and even if we never-"

"It's not about the sex," Remus snaps, waving a hand dismissively. "We can have sex today, if you want. I'm ready to have sex with you," he says plainly, and Sirius can tell he means it. _Jesus Christ, this boy._ "It's not about that. It's about what happens when you want to spend more time with me. When you want to sleep at my house, or you want me to come out for dinner with you, or go to the pub again. What if you want us to live together? I can't do that. I won't be able to do that."

"Remus," Sirius says, shaking his head in wonder. "You're getting _way_ ahead of yourself..."

"I'm just trying to be honest."

"I know, and I love you for that." Sirius doesn't realise what's happened until the words are past his lips, and he rushes through them, his face burning, hoping wildly that he can distract them both from what he's just said out loud. "I just think that none of these are things we need to decide _now_. I'm not going to make you," he waves a hand desperately, shrugging, "sign a document, or whatever, and commit to any hypothetical future changes that you don't think you'll be able to make. We can just... see what happens," he trails off lamely, and somehow feels almost breathless. Like he's just fought his final battle and is waiting to see how the sword falls. 

"But... look," he adds, quieter now. "I'm not going to force you to make the choice for me. You don't have to send me away or ask me to stay; I'm going to do what makes sense for me, and right now I think that's staying, but if that can't involve you, then that's..." He wants to say it's fine. It's not, really. The thought of living at the farm alone and seeing Remus every morning at the café but not being allowed to touch him, or kiss him, or tell him how much he bloody adores him is almost too painful to think about. "I'm just letting you know that the option's on the table," he finishes weakly.

There's a long silence, stretching out impossibly, time itself held in stasis as if it knows the weight of whatever might come next; a perilous hinge point in a history that Sirius hopes they've only just begun to write. Something damp lands on the back of Sirius's neck; it's started to rain.

"I want you to stay," says Remus at last, and Sirius hangs in freefall for a moment before he lets himself believe what he's hearing and feels himself physically sag in relief. It's like something leaves him in one great rush, poison flushed from his veins, and a dagger pulled from his heart as he looks across at Remus, mindless to the rain now falling in earnest around them. "I don't know if I can do it," Remus murmurs, looking at Sirius with a kind of tentative resolve. "But I want you to stay. And I want to try."

Sirius doesn't really remember moving, but suddenly he's tugging Remus fiercely into his arms in the middle of the narrow street, fisting his hands in the back of his raincoat and pressing firm, insistent kisses into his damp curls.

"I want to try too," he whispers roughly, lips tilting up into a smile as he pulls Remus close.

"We really can have sex today, if you want," Remus whispers back after a long, quiet moment, and Sirius barks out a teary laugh, and holds him even tighter.


	3. Seven and a Half Months Later

They didn't have sex that day. Or the day after, or the following weekend when Sirius first went back to the cottage after James and his parents had packed up and left for London, and he'd shut down the café for the afternoon and trodden the worn, familiar path through the wildflower meadow and up over the cliff tops. They did have sex three weeks later, on a grey, blustery day after another morning at Tintagel, the wind beating at the sides of the cottage and rushing through the beds of the rose garden outside, sky the colour of stone. Sirius had been curled in his usual armchair in the study, leafing through Remus's old copy of _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_ , and Remus had appeared in the doorway wearing a curious expression.

"I want to have sex with you," he'd said plainly, and Sirius had nearly spilt his tea all over a drawing of Guinevere.

"Now?" he'd spluttered, equal parts thrilled and alarmed by the rapidness with which he found himself fully hard under the patchwork blanket he'd wrapped himself in.

Remus had nodded, and they'd ended up stumbling upstairs together to Remus's bedroom, tucked away under the eaves at the sea-facing side of the house, a circular window on the far wall looking out over the waves as they crashed like thunder against the cliffs outside. The bed creaked, its wooden headboard painted green, and with a great mound of blankets to bury themselves under once Remus had seized inside Sirius and Sirius had clung to him and cried out in pleasure, startling the gulls from the mossy tiles above them.

Remus had, delightfully, fussed over Sirius for hours afterwards, checking that he was alright and that nothing hurt and that he was warm enough and fed enough and Sirius wasn't sure what books Remus had been reading in the no doubt extensive periods of research that preceded him asking for sex, but he let himself revel in the attention until Remus tried to make him drink a cup of some disgusting herbal tea that he claimed had restorative properties, and Sirius had batted him away fondly and told him to leave him alone and go do something useful.

Sometime in November Sirius tells James about how he's been helping Remus with his research for his next book, and James calls him a nerd and asks him if he wants a toy wand for his birthday.

"Actually," Sirius says down the phone, holding up a finger in correction. "Merlin never used a wand."

"You've just proved my entire point," says James, deadpan, but it's said with so much fondness, and Sirius finds himself grinning to the empty café.

They all come down to the farm for Christmas as promised, James and Lily and Effie and Fleamont, and James and Fleamont bundle away in the kitchen for the morning putting together great platters of turkey and Brussels sprouts and red cabbage, and then at noon Sirius and James - who seems, mercifully, to have largely forgiven Remus for the events of the late summer - drive up to the cottage in Fleamont's car to pick Remus up. He eats a late lunch with them all, Sirius now expertly dishing out a plate for him that he knows won't make him sick or tired or scratchy, and he even stays for a game of Trivial Pursuit - which he wins - before he's glancing at Sirius and the two of them leave to wander back to the cottage together, sated and happy as they walk hand-in-hand through the frost-ridden meadow up the hill. They swap presents near the roaring hearth in the little sitting room; a new leather-bound notebook and a box of tea for Remus, and a book about the Arthurian romances wrapped in an ivy green ribbon for Sirius, and then they're heaving themselves off the sofa and climbing the narrow staircase to bed.

It's something that changed in early December: Sirius being permitted to spend the occasional night at the cottage, and the first few times he'd done it he’d woken to find Remus staring at him in the darkness as if he were a wild cat that had snuck in through an open window and Remus was debating how best to wrangle and remove him. It got better, though, and on Boxing Day Sirius wakes to find Remus tucked up behind him under the covers, an arm crossed over Sirius's chest and a headful of sleep-tousled curls pressed against his upper back. 

The roses in the bed outside Remus's study start to bud in late March, and James calls to tell Sirius he's already booked his train ticket to come down for his Easter break. Remus still has his breakfast in the café every morning, and Sirius still makes his porridge first and lets it sit whilst he brews the tea so it's not too hot when he takes it to the table in the window, and it's a mild day in the first week of April when the bell above the door rings and Sirius looks up to see Remus padding towards him across the floor, a brown paper package tucked under his arm.

"Is it here?" Sirius asks excitedly, looking at the parcel and wiping his hands off hurriedly on a tea towel.

Remus nods, and passes the package across the bar to Sirius. "I wanted you to open it," he says, and then he's picking absently at a thread on his cuff, nibbling at his bottom lip as he watches Sirius carefully tear into the brown paper. 

Sirius pulls the book out, and there it is: _West of Avalon_ , by R. J. Lupin. It's not the first volume Remus has had published, but it's the first one that Sirius watched him write from its inception, the first he saw come to life through afternoons bringing cups of tea to Remus hunched over at his desk in his study, notes and scrawled pages lying loose-leaf around the cottage all winter and trips to castles and the coast to spend mornings collecting and learning and helping Remus gather everything he needed for his work. 

"Wow," he grins, running a finger over the embossed lettering on the cover, and then he's flipping it open to look at the first page and he feels a great, unbidden lump in his throat as he reads what's written there.

_For Sirius, with love;_

_the Sir Gawain to my Lady Ragnell_

"Oh, Remus," he says softly, not trusting his voice one bit. His eyes feel all hot.

"Is that okay?" Remus mumbles, still pulling at the cuff of his sleeve, and then Sirius is tutting fondly and walking round the counter to pull Remus into a fierce, fierce hug.

"Of course it's okay, you bat," he mutters into Remus's hair, pressing a firm kiss to the side of his head. He sniffs, wiping his eyes quickly with his sleeve when he steps back and looks down at the page again, shaking his head in wonder.

"Wasn't Gawain an outcast in the end, though?" he asks after a moment, an ironic smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

"What do I keep telling you, Sirius?" says Remus, looking at him beseechingly. "There are infinite versions of every story. You get to choose the one you like the most."

He's being pulled into a long, slow kiss then, right there in the middle of the café, and as Remus threads his fingers through the loose strands of hair at the nape of Sirius's neck and brings him even closer, Sirius knows, with a grin against Remus's lips, that he never really had a choice at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Thrilled to say that this fic inspired a gorgeous piece of artwork by apollx on tumblr, which you can see here: https://apollx.tumblr.com/post/636612535993384960/
> 
> I'm also on tumblr at https://eyra.tumblr.com/ where I post moodboard photoset things for my little stories amongst many wolfstar reblogs.
> 
> Thanks again all for reading, see you next time x


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